Mahogany
by Morwen's Revival
Summary: One-shot- DracoGinny- She hates that she gave away everything. She hates that she ran from it all. She hates that she is lost. Has the mahogany given back?


**Disclaimer- I don't own Harry Potter**

**_A/N- Hello everyone, I just want to thank you all for reading, and I beg you to review. I love reviews like every ff writer. Please be rambly and nitpicky if you'd like. This was written to the song Mexico by Incubus, if you are interested. I totally recommend you hear it. And please check out my other stories! Thanks!_**

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**Mahogany**

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The suitcase is full. She holds it in front of her, its new weight pulling her arms down. It feels awkward, so weighed down. She does not like it.

The house is huge. It isn't even a house, more of a mansion. It is dark and cold, expensive furniture, paintings, and obscure shadows on the lofty walls, shadows that remind her too much of things she likes to forget.

Everything there is elegant and unusual. She is surrounded by the most atypical of objects from the obsidian floors to the exceptional chandelier above her. She is not used to this. It is different from all she has known, all now she would like to put aside.

She feels common. Her thin coat and tattered skirt stick out like dust on a spotless mahogany table. Her shoes are poor. She can see her graying socks through holes in the worn leather. She puts on foot over the other to hide it. It is embarrassing in a place like this, but never in the places she would like to leave behind.

There is a sound at the top of the stairs. She looks up. He is standing there, watching her intently. He is dressed impeccably. The black suit he wears cuts his frame perfectly. He is tall and lean. His white blond hair is falls to below his ear, and is pushed back lightly. One strand falls in his face

She no longer feels common. She feels dirty. His icy eyes stare at her, taking her apart. He can see threw her. He can see her flaws, her pitiable manners. He is something else, he has class and grace, but she is meager and poor.

He moves down the steps like a jaguar, tracking his prey. He is in many ways like a cat- his slits of eyes, his sharp canine teeth, the angular set of his jaw. She is embarrassed and flushes, looking down at her crisscrossed feet. He approaches, circling her, ready to pounce. She tries to concentrate on the ground in front of her, the clasp of the suitcase, the hem of her skirt- anywhere but him.

He sees this. He knows she is avoiding his gaze. Expertly, his spidery hand grabs her narrow chin, brushing against her wine hair. Her head lifts, just enough for her eyes to meet his own. His hand is cold against her skin, yet it burns in the most unpleasant way.

He murmurs her name. She is not sure if it is meant for her or for himself. She says nothing. Slowly, he slides his hand down her neck, down her shoulders, and down her arm to grasp her hand.

Their fingers intertwine. With his other hand, he takes the suitcase from her. She does not carry it any more, its new weight pulling her down no longer. It does not feels heavy, not weighed down. She likes it.

He starts to move up the stairs. She follows him. She has to. He has her hand, and now he has her suitcase.

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Shelves and shelves of deep mahogany tower over her, lined with books of various shapes and sizes. No windows break the lurking shadow, only a few torches hung carelessly along the walls. A fire roars in the large stone fireplace, casting ghosts of storybook characters from long ago across the room. She can not see the ceiling.

For such a great space, she feels almost claustrophobic.

She is trying to read, sitting stiffly on the rough velvet sofa. An old tome rests on her lap, cut open to half way through. Spidery scrawl fills the yellowing pages. It is hard to make anything of the writing without deep concentration.

He distracts her.

He is sitting across from her, flung nonchalantly in the sturdy armchair. He holds his small book in one hand, his thumb and pinkie keeping it open. His brow is furrowed; a low mutter escapes from his lips. She wonders what he is thinking of.

Her?

A piece of his fine hair falls in front of his eyes, glowing almost silver in the murk. She urges to go to him, to push the strand away. She does not move. He is only across the small Oriental rug, but embarrassment keeps her from crossing such a delicate barrier.

It is too late. He pulls the wisp away with his lanky fingers, tucking it gently behind his ear. She looks back down to her own reading, trying to concentrate.

A stray piece of her own deep hair falls before her eyes. Her pupils flick to it, and then to him. He is watching her- no, he is watching her piece of hair fallen from her stately up do. For a moment, there is nothing. His gaze is still set on her hair and hers to the ground.

Suddenly, he stands, moving with grace she could never achieve. He kneels low in front of her. With expert finesse, he grasps the waving tress in his familiar limbs. She watches his hand, feeling the cold from his skin, even when is not touching her. Carefully, he tucks the lock behind her own ear.

He looks directly, giving an odd smirk. She smiles politely, flushing. Nodding he returns to his seat.

He is sitting across from her, flung nonchalantly in the sturdy armchair. He holds his small book in one hand, his thumb and pinkie keeping it open. His brow is furrowed; a low mutter escapes from his lips. She wonders wait he is thinking of.

Her?

She hopes so.

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Her hair is piled high in crimson spirals, the stray strands tickling her pale neck. The dress she wears is black and plain, but still elegant. The jewelry around her is real and expensive. Her face is harsh and stern, pale and cold, ethereal and glowing. She looks beautiful for one about to die, and she hates it.

She looks at herself in the mirror. She sees threw it, the mask she has out on, the façade that is her appearance. She is not natural. She is fake, and she hates it.

Around her are the most beautiful of things- priceless items from far off lands, mahogany furniture made for looking and not touching, and the paintings, the paintings that looked back at her, stared at her with a knowing gaze. Each pair of gray eyes finding her over and over again, and she hates it.

He is there, in the bathroom. She hears him banging around, getting ready for tonight. He is talking to her, telling her what to do, but she is not listening. She can not bear to listen- not anymore. Once, she begged to hear his voice, for him to tell her that he loved her. Now, his voice is fingers on the chalkboard. It rakes up and down her spine in a disturbing way, and she hates it.

She looks down at her arm. There is a bruise there. It is dark, a purplish blue. She puts some make up on it. It is not a big deal. She has had many like it before. More cover up is just more of her costume, just a little more of her disguise, and she hates it.

He comes into the room, dressed now. He looks good as usual. The suit he wears is straight and sharp, like his nature. He smiles at her, and she smiles back but it is false. She can not smile at him. She does not want to, not after what he has done to her, and she hates it.

He moves behind her, wrapping his arms around her small waist. He says that she looks wonderful, a low whisper into her neck. Then, in a husky voice, he murmurs to her ear that she will be good, that she will not mess up. Without thinking, she promises him, and she hates it.

A short kiss is placed on her cheek, before he heads over to the wardrobe, flinging it open. He searches through the cluttered interior, and eventually takes out a tie. He shows it to her, asking her opinion, and she tells him it is great. She tells him everything about him is great. It is a lie, and she hates it.

He turns back to the wardrobe, fixing the tie around his neck. Her smile instantly drops and she turns back to the mirror, looking at her empty shell. She is hollow. She is barren, and she is surprised he cannot tell. Then again, he would never care enough to know, and she hates it.

He makes his way to the door, and she tells him she will be down in a moment. He nods, and tells her not to be late, before exiting the room. He does not slam the door behind him, but makes his leave known with a prominent click. He is like that. He must always have the last word, and she hates it.

Knowing he is gone, she slowly opens the drawer of her vanity. She takes it out, still gleaming sliver in the small light. It is a knife, and it is plain. There is nothing special or important. It is simple metal with a basic mahogany handle, and she hates it.

She brings the blade up to her face, studying it's every feature- the partly worn edges, the scrapes along its side, a crack in the handle. It is harsh and stern, pale and cold, ethereal and glowing. It looks beautiful for something about to kill, and she hates it.

She hates it.

She hates that she gave away everything. She hates that she gave it all to him. She hates that she ran from it all. She hates that he was the one she ran to. She hates that she is a costume. She hates that she puts on the costume for him. She hates that she is lost. She hates that she lost herself to him.

She grips it hard, her fingers turning white from the pressure, and she takes it to her wrist. She looks at herself for a moment, the cool ivory skin rooted with icy blue veins- veins that look so promising…

And she wonders- Will she still hate to love him in Hell?

FIN


End file.
